Page 2 of The Wicker King

And worst of all—he had never wanted a cigarette more in his goddamn life.

But it would be a cold day in hell before that happened. They don’t give lighters to arsonists.

AUGUST

He probably would have gotten off easier if he hadn’t been so sarcastic.

It was just—they kept asking the stupidest questions. You know how small-town cops are. It was way too difficult to hold it in.

“Was the fire an accident, son?” The officer had looked tired, like he hoped August would say yes.

But, of course, August didn’t. He’d just narrowed his eyes and said something rude. Then they slammed him into the holding cell so fast, it was as if he’d been begging to go.

Honestly, though. He was standing there with accelerant drying on his jeans and second-degree burns on his hands. It was a waste of everyone’s time to try lying.

JACK

It was mostly his own fault for getting dragged in. But August supposed if he could blame anyone else for his current situation, it would be Jack.

Jack had always been bossy—even when they were kids. He didn’t leave much room for defiance when his mind was set on something, and August had just gotten used to it. He wasn’t a leader. It wasn’t natural for him. He understood and accepted that. But … sometimes it’s better to have control over your own destiny.

This situation was one of those times.

Which—August thought as he tested the restraints on his wrists—was a grievous understatement.

Besides, he felt kind of bad complaining so much. Jack was doing ten thousand times worse than he was. The poor kid couldn’t even go outside.

But—like every disaster they’d gotten themselves into through the history of their friendship—it hadn’t started all bad. Things were actually pretty fun until that last bit with all the screaming and the flames and the ambulances.

ROOSEVELT HIGH SCORE

They didn’t hang out at school, Jack and him. They were on stratospherically different popularity levels. Plus, these types of things usually had a system:

The Jocks stuck to the Jocks, the Punk kids with the Punk kids, Band Geeks, Goths, AP hard-asses, agro ROTC-ers, Stoners, Ravers, Cheerleaders, New Age Hippies, Hipsters, Grunge Kids, Gamers, Lit Nerds, Actual Nerds, Theater Kids, Druggies, Gangsters, “the Popular Crowd,” and those shy, immature kids who grouped together in awkward clumps. Everyone stuck to what they knew.

Of course, there was drifting between subgroups, but it was rare.

Jack rode the edge of the Popular Crowd just by virtue of his involvement with sports, while August found himself smack between the Lit Nerds and the Druggies—roughly near the middle of the totem. It wasn’t exactly glamorous, but running drugs for Daliah meant that he was part of a group of Providers of Services—notable figureheads of the high school economy—and that he could make a month’s worth of “minimum wage part-time job” wages in a week. Which was important because he really needed the money.

He didn’t brag about it, but the way he looked really helped with not getting caught. August was horribly neat and organized. He wore fashionable, expensive clothes that he saved up for months to buy, and he was intense about personal hygiene. He didn’t like people to know that he was poor. So he was never on a suspect list because of his obvious fastidiousness, spotless record, and absolutely perfect slicked-back hair.

WOLVES

They really only saw each other on school property at games. Their rugby team wasn’t the best, but since it was the only major sport in their town, everyone generally made a lot of hoopla about it.

August didn’t even like rugby, but he went to every game anyway. Jack was ridiculously athletic and first line this year, so August couldn’t make an excuse not to care. He never cheered, because that was too much work. But he went, and that seemed to be enough.

After games, they usually met up in the locker room before taking Jack’s shitty Camaro out to the plains to fuck around in the grass.

Wrestle and run. That sort of thing.

It was tradition. It made it all right that they didn’t see each other during the day. It was worth people not knowing that they knew each other better than anyone knew anyone, really. They were so far apart on the social spectrum that it wouldn’t make sense to people if they started openly hanging out together. It would be a spectacle, and August didn’t like spectacle. Some things were just meant to be private.

CARRIE-ANNE

Jack was good-looking. He was a bit shorter than August, but not by much. He had a sharp face with clever eyes, and usually wore his hair buzzed low—but it had grown out now. He had the whole light hair–gray eyes thing going on that people went crazy for. He was also strong and athletic. That didn’t mean much to August, but he’d heard girls talking about it in the hallway.

Jack was popular, unlike August, and of course he had a girlfriend. Her name was Carrie-Anne: a bottle-blond, UGG-booted, North Face–wearing prepster with a perfect GPA.